


1979

by kingofkingdom



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: (male receiving), Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Child Abandonment, Come Eating, Come Marking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff and Smut, Hitchhiking, Mention of Parent Death, Mild Blood, Motels, No mention of pregnancy, Nude Photos, Oral Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Shower Sex, Smoking, Unprotected Sex, Vietnam War, baby hijinks ensue, because it's my au goddamnit, brief mention of breastfeeding, brief mention of the vietnam war, but blood is mentioned, characters fantasize about public sex, completely self-indulgent beach scene, din calls reader 'kid' in the way that men used to call women that, gratuitous 70's music references, let me know if I missed anything!, like tostito's salsa mild, mention of a gun, mention of dangerous/abusive father, mention of homelessness, meta star wars mention, no age play or underage anything or whatever, previous tag goes along with the baby situation, sharing a bed (!!!), sorry if these tags are a whole mess, substantial discussion of aforementioned war. that is not the setting., tattooed din djarin, wrap it before you tap it friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:07:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28768311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingofkingdom/pseuds/kingofkingdom
Summary: The year is 1979. You need a ride to anywhere that’s far away from where you are. When a handsome stranger in a rustbucket pickup gives you that ride, neither of you could predict any of the events that follow.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader
Comments: 61
Kudos: 185





	1. ONE

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! Originally I meant for this to be a single work, but I’ve hit a bit of a slump with the last bit. I decided to post this to see how people feel about it! The second part will be much longer, and will be rated E. :)  
> Also: I know there has been some discourse recently about Din’s characterization in certain fics, so I hope this does him justice for you! I’m always open to comments, and like I said I’m very interested in hearing what you think.  
> As per usual, no use of Y/N and please heed the tags/warnings. Also posted to tumblr under the same username (kingofkingdom).

8:47

You lean against the streetlight, glancing down at your watch and then back up to the motel across the street. You told yourself you'd wait until 8:30 and then you'd go back and reserve a room for another night. As you watch the second hand wind its way around the small, plain face of your 2-dollar timepiece, you've convinced yourself that maybe staying out until 9 is the ticket.

 _Your_ ticket, out of this shithole town.

The summer air is hot and thick around you. It's especially unbearable both between your legs and at the band of your bra, the elastic stretched around your middle doing its best to make you feel as sweaty and uncomfortable as possible. At least you're wearing your cutoffs, giving your legs the chance to breathe. You've also got a loose tank on, which flutters in the sticky wind as cars pass you by.

8:51

Your thumb has been stuck out for passerby to see for the past three days. No one has picked you up. You suppose you should be more wary of taking lifts from complete strangers with all the murder and kidnapping that's been in the news recently, but you're more than a little headstrong with a dash of stupid to go along. That's what your mother always told you, anyway.

Some Cadillac speeds past you, blaring what you think is a Donna Summer song, and you watch as the music and taillights fade into the night.

You shouldn't be surprised, you figure, as the minutes continue to tick on by. _There's a gas shortage_ , you reason with yourself as you bend down to pick up your bag, thumb still stuck out, elbow resting on your waist. _People don't do this anymore._ Afraid of getting picked up by a pervert or a killer. Afraid of picking one up, and then a streetlight just like the one you're under is the last thing they see.

8:58

You sigh, ready to head in for the night. Marvin, dude who sits at the motel's front desk, is sure to give you shit about it again.

You're preparing to cross the street when you hear the low growl of a pickup truck approach. Not looking to get creamed by some fuckin' rusted-out GMC, you step back onto the curb where you'd been posted.

Except the truck slows up, and the window rolls down as it crawls to a stop in front of you.

Your heart races. _Finally_.

You walk up to the passenger side window and look in, expecting some fat old putz looking to get some tail in exchange for a ride.

That's not what you see.

"Need a lift, young lady?"

The truck's driver is older than you, sure, but you were wrong about pretty much everything else. He's got short dark hair and a 'stache, with some stubble across his chin. He's wearing a leather jacket over a plain gray tee, with a pair of sunglasses hung on the collar. One hand is on the wheel while the other is laid across the back of the bench seat, a cigarette perched in between his first two fingers.

You lean forward on your tiptoes as best you can, forearms resting on the door's open window. Pretending to survey the interior, you look around and take the opportunity to check the man out. _God_ , you think. _I wouldn't mind giving him whatever he wants in exchange for this ride. Maybe another kinda ride. Ha!_

"As it turns out, I do. You offering?"

You rest your chin on your arms and give him the sweetest smile you can muster. The man eyes you up and takes a drag from his cigarette. You watch with rapt attention as he inhales deeply and then exhales the smoke out through his nose.

This guy's got you all hot and bothered and you haven't even gotten in the truck.

He gestures with his hand. "Come on, kid. I gotta make the state line by midnight."

You definitely like the sound of that. Eager and supremely stoked to finally have a way out of this dump, you pull on the handle, jump in, and swing the door closed behind you. Your backpack finds its place between your feet, and the stranger starts driving again as you pull your seatbelt across your shoulders.

"Where're you headed?" the man asks, glancing over to you and then looking back at the road. The asphalt seems to stretch into infinity, flanked by trees and fields and the occasional watering hole.

"Away from here," you chuckle as you fidget with your fingers. Black nail polish decorates your trimmed nails. It's chipped and uneven in some spots; you never were great at painting your nails, especially your right hand.

"I got that," the man drawls, voice deep and smooth like honey. "Any particular destination in mind?"

You shrug. To be honest, you hadn't exactly thought that far ahead. Your first and only priority was a way out, and anything after that was a problem to be handled when it came to it.

"Nope. Just as far as you're willing to take me."

The guy nods and takes a drag. The smell of cigarettes never bothered you like it does some other people; you find it relaxing, calming, especially when it's fresh and all-consuming like it is in this guy's truck. The vehicle itself is old, maybe 10 or 15 years, and a glance into the bed behind you tells you he's traveling with a couple boxes and nothing more.

It's certainly not state-of-the-art, but that's all the better for staying under the radar.

The silence looms over you like a cloud. The stranger seems content to just listen to the engine and the tires on the road, but you're prone to fill silences unprompted.

"What's your name?" you ask, and look over at him. He glances at you and raises a brow.

He clears his throat, eyes moving back to the road. "You can call me Mando."

"Mando?" you retort before you can stop yourself. "What kinda bogus name is that? Like, what... you got a thing for mandolins or some shit?"

The man huffs. "It is what is, kid. Get used to it."

You sigh, crossing your arms. "Alright, alright... _Mando_."

He doesn't try to continue the conversation, so you don't either. Minutes pass, and then hours, and you find yourself drifting off not too long after the clock reads 10:00. You shake yourself awake, wanting to stave off sleep until he pulls over to rest for the night.

But the engine is like a lullaby, the soft swaying of the truck a gentle rocking motion, and your eyes fall closed despite your best efforts.

When you wake up again, the truck is no longer moving, and the clock reads 12:30. 

You must have been woken up by Mando putting the truck into park. The darkness outside does not give any clues as to where you are, but as your eyes adjust you can just make out some picnic tables, garbage cans, and signs.

A rest area. Makes sense.

Mando is fumbling with something beside you. It's a map, you realize when you look over.

"Where are we?" you ask with a yawn.

"Just over the border. Made it a bit later than I would've liked, but that's not a big deal. You can sleep here in the cab. I'll take the bed, since I sleep there anyway."

You nod, though you find it odd the way he's... not asking you for anything. He hasn't mentioned payment, monetary or otherwise. You watch as he folds the map back up, and catch his gaze as he stashes it in the glove box.

"I gotta repay you somehow, mister," you mutter. "For how nice you're bein' to me. 'Specially since I made fun of your name and all."

At your words, Mando gives you a stern look from under one of his furrowed brows. "No, you don't. Blanket's under the seat. Get some rest."

He turns away, grabs the keys, and is out the door before you can reply.

It's just so unusual for a guy to pick up a girl like you and refuse payment, much less not ask for or take it outright. It's a shame, really. Any other guy, you'd give him what he wanted sure, but with less than enthusiastic participation. The one man to whom you'd gladly deliver anything he asked... and he seems not to want it.

You suppose you shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. Better a prude than a murderer, that's for sure.

As you reach under the seat for the blanket, your hand brushes against some sort of canvas bag, long and zippered. You lean over to look in at it upside-down, hair brushing against the dusty floor mats.

It's a rifle bag. You reach in to feel at where the barrel would be, and sure enough, there's something distinctly rifle-shaped inside.

Huh. It's not a surprise that a guy like him's traveling armed, but it makes you wonder. A hunter, maybe? Probably. There's a lot of those around.

You spot the blanket and pull it out. It's gray, scratchy wool, but as you pull it over yourself, you find it keeps the nighttime chill away quite well.

-

You wake up to Mando swatting at your feet.

"Time to get up, sunshine. Gotta get going."

His deep voice pierces through the fog of sleep still hanging thick over your mind. You groan and push yourself up onto your elbows, drawing your feet in to give him space to slide into the drivers' seat. 

It's still dark out. You see a hint of light on the horizon, the beginning of the sunrise peeking over hills and fields.

"What time is it?" you ask, rubbing at your eyes. You're a chronic over-sleeper, so seeing the sunrise is a rarity. It seems Mando has no such problem.

"A bit after six. We'll stop at a diner for something to eat in about an hour. You're welcome to go back to sleep until then." He turns the key in the ignition and the truck rumbles to life, a blast of lukewarm air hitting you in the face. 

"No, no. I'm up," you assure him, shrugging the blanket off your shoulders. As you fold it, you look over at the man beside you. He's wearing the same faded jeans and leather jacket as yesterday, but the shirt underneath has changed. The sunglasses are still hung on the collar, but now it's some faded band tee from like 8 years ago. 

You set the folded-up blanket on the seat between you and him, watching as he puts the truck into drive and starts off. Before you know it, you're watching the early-morning world pass by outside your window. You kick off your sandals and tuck your feet up under yourself, sitting crosslegged on the seat.

About 15 minutes later, you've grown tired of watching farmhouses and cornfields fly by in the dark.

"So, uh..." you start, not really knowing where you intend to finish your sentence, "you like music?"

 _Stupid. That was stupid_.

Mando chuckles. "Yeah."

"Yeah?" you reply, hopeful that he might have more to say.

"Yes. I do like music."

You roll your eyes. "What _kind_ of music? Jazz? Opera? Country-western? Who's your favorite artist? Got any favorite records?"

He glances over at you, a hint of a smile tugging at the edge of his lips. "You sure do ask a lot of questions."

"Well, I figure if I'm gonna be traveling with you for a good while, I might as well know a bit about you. And vice versa."

Mando just hums. 

"I'll tell you mine, then," you inform him, grinning widely now. "My favorite record right now is Parallel Lines. By Blondie, you know? I really like them. This time last year I woulda told you my favorite album was something by Wire or the Sex Pistols - I was real into punk, if you know anything about it. Now I'm more into poppy stuff. I just think it's fun, to be honest."

You continue to ramble to Mando well into the drive. The sky grows lighter and the road grows more crowded, but he does not stop you. At the end of a tangent about Bowie, you turn to look at him, and he's sitting there like you haven't just talked his ear off for the past twenty minutes.

"Sorry. I jus-"

"Don't apologize. It's... I don't mind," he interrupts, not taking his eyes off the road.

You stretch your legs out in front of you, looking at the sandal-shaped marks on the tops of your feet. "Don't you have any particular songs you like?"

Mando's quiet for a minute. You wait, looking up out the window. The sky is a pale pink and blue, with a hint of orange off to the east. A field of cows comes up on your left - your eyes track them as they pass by, wondering what it's like to pet one.

You bet they're soft. Soft and cuddly and so dumb they're cute.

"You have to promise not to laugh." 

The words come as a surprise. You look over to Mando, eyes wide and interested.

"Never. Favorite music is sacred."

He sighs. His grip tightens on the wheel, like sharing even a small part of himself causes him distress.

" _Tapestry_. Carole King," he says, though the words are quiet and guarded.

That wasn't the answer you were expecting. "Really?" you ask, smiling brightly.

He just nods, though he spares a glance towards you, like he's gauging your reaction. You lean back against the seat, turning towards him more fully.

"I wouldn't have guessed. Color me surprised, Mando. You have good taste." It's true. The album's a classic, though more so with girls your age, not guys who pick up hitchhikers and keep rifles in their trucks. "What do you like about it?"

Mando shifts, bringing his left arm up to rest on the door, elbow propped so his head can rest on his hand. "Not sure. She writes a good song, that's all I know."

You're not satisfied with that answer. You'll get to know Mando, even if it's like pulling teeth. "Bull-shit. Pink Floyd writes a good song. Paul Simon writes a good song. Why _her_? Why that record? It came out like ten years ago, there's gotta be a reason - a _real_ reason - you still like it."

The drone of the engine and the road is like a soundtrack in itself to the silences that loom heavy before every sentence he speaks. You wonder when the last time he really got to talk to someone was - talk like this, not small conversation with the waiter or grocer. 

You're no psychiatrist, but it doesn't take a genius to spot someone who's been alone for a while.

Mando hums. "I guess I relate to her songs... in a way I didn't expect to when I first heard her music."

You smile at that, pleased as punch that he trusts you with that information. It's like cupping cool water in your hands on a hot summer's day, fleeting and precious. "What's your favorite song on the record?"

He turns his gaze to your for a moment, dark brown eyes staring at your dirty feet and day-old shirt and messy hair. You're not sure what exactly he _sees_ as he takes you in, but you sit there and allow it regardless.

Mando looks back to the road, watching the small town approaching slowly on the horizon. " _I Feel the Earth Move."_

You nod. "A classic."

He just hums in response, and you expect the truck to fill with silence once again.

Except it doesn't.

Mando reaches out and presses the button to turn on the radio. Blondie's _Heart of Glass_ flows out through the speakers - and you laugh.

-

The glowing neon sign advertising _Lindy's Diner,_ with her promise of pancakes and eggs and bacon and coffee, gets you more excited than you care to admit. Mando pulls into a parking spot along the street, and you're out the door before the wheels have stopped turning.

Admittedly, you do also have to pee. 

You rush into the diner to take care of your business, also using the provided sinks to brush your teeth and the mirror to comb through your hair with your fingers. 

It's not much, but you do feel better. Hopefully tonight you can stay in a motel at least, maybe take a shower.

You exit the restroom and look around the diner. Mando's sitting in a booth, smoking a cigarette and looking out the window. You head over, tossing your backpack into your side first and sliding in after it.

"I'll be right back," he says, and leaves. You watch him walk over to the men's restroom, the door swinging shut behind him.

Whatever. Kinda rude. Not like you care, anyway.

You lean back in the booth and take a menu from the stand at the end of the table. The classic breakfast platter is looking particularly tempting, with its hash browns and bacon and eggs-however-you-like. You're contemplating scrambled versus over-easy when you hear a pair of footsteps walk up to your table.

Two strange men stand over you, looking at you like they know exactly how homeless you really are.

"You here alone, baby?" the shorter one asks, putting a grimy hand on the back of your booth, right behind your head. You open your mouth to say _no, in fact, I am not_ , but the other guy speaks for you.

"It looks like you are, honey. Just our luck, a girl like you all on her -"

"Is there a problem?"

Mando's deep voice cuts through whatever it was the creep was planning to say. The low timbre of his voice, normally soft and kind, is uniquely dark - almost menacing - when it hides a threat. 

You slowly cross your legs, hoping no one notices the movement under the table.

The two guys turn, and behind them you see Mando, looking extremely pissed. He puts a hand on the back of the taller man's neck, cig still perched between his fingers, and yanks him away from where he'd been standing in front of Mando's side of the booth.

"Jesus, man! We didn't know you were -"

Mando puts his hands on his hips, eyeing them up like a lion might size up its prey. "What? You didn't know what?"

The guy gulps. "Uh..."

"Come on," Mando taunts, something dark glinting in his eyes. "Don't get nervous on me, now."

"We didn't know you were with her, man. Sorry."

Mando shakes his head. "No. Don't say that to me. Say it to her." He nods hid head towards you, subtly positioning his body in between yours and theirs.

You're frozen in your seat, torn between fear and arousal.

The tall guy glances at you. "Sorry," he mutters. The shorter one's still looking at you funny, though.

Your companion jerks his head towards the door. "It's best you both leave, now." 

You realize the diner's gone quiet, customers and employees alike watching the exchange with bated breath. The taller guy glances around and turns, heading straight for the door. His buddy hesitates, gaze shifting from Mando to you and back again. Eventually he also turns to leave, following the other one out.

Mando slides into his seat, though he won't quite meet your gaze when you look at him. Noise picks up in the diner once again and you let out a shaky breath.

You're about to say something when the two guys pass by the window. The shorter one peers in, works his jaw, and spits on the ground on the other side of the window from you. You see him mouth the word ' _bitch!_ '.

Rolling your eyes, you turn to Mando to try and joke about it, attempting to brush off the uncomfortable encounter. But he's not there, and you realize belatedly that he's now storming outside.

Mouth agape, you watch as Mando stalks up to the short guy. _Jesus_ , you think, _if looks could kill..._

The creep whirls around, throwing a fist at Mando before he even gets a good look at him. Mando dodges it easily with a step back, looking simultaneously murderous and annoyed. He winds his arm back and sends his fist flying at the creep's face. The guy stumbles and falls, clutching at what is now a bloody and broken nose, landing on his back on the sidewalk. His friend has long run off.

Mando puts a boot on the guy's sternum, pressing down so he can't get up no matter how much he struggles.

You see him lean down, elbow on his knee, and say something. The guy's eyes widen and he nods frantically. Mando then removes his foot and, without sparing the guy a second glance, re-enters the diner.

He slides into the booth again and takes the menu from you. There's blood on the knuckles of his right hand, but he makes no move to wipe it off. He flips through the pages as if nothing happened. You stare at him.

"You didn't have to do that," you mutter, voice soft and wavering. 

Without looking from the menu, he responds. "Yes, I did."

"But, you coulda just... just let him go..."

"I could have," he replies, and turns a page. "But I didn't."

"But -"

For the first time since you both entered the diner, he looks up at you, and you're taken aback the intensity of his eyes. "He deserved worse, kid. Far worse."

He sounds so sure of it that you can't bring yourself to say otherwise. You sigh and clasp your hands together on the table, unsure of where to go from here. 

Just then, the waitress comes up to your table, notepad and pen in hand.

"You two know what ya want?" she asks as Mando puts the menu back in its place.

He gestures for you to go first.

"Uh, yeah. I'll have the classic platter with scrambled eggs and white toast. And black coffee, please."

The woman nods, writing your order on her pad. "And you, sir?"

"I'll have the blueberry flapjacks, please. And coffee, black, for me as well."

The waitress nods and turns away. As you watch her push through the silver kitchen door, you realize that maybe you should be grateful for the way things went. That they didn't get uglier.

That Mando was there at all.

"Thank you," you say softly, doing your best to convey your sincerity to the man sitting across from you.

He simply nods, observing you with a look you can't quite place.

-

After breakfast, the two of you set off down the highway again. Fleetwood Mac flows out through the speakers and you don't expect to stop until after noon, when Mando will have to refuel (both the truck and your stomachs). Until then you kick off your shoes and put your feet up on the dash, window cracked about an inch so the summer wind can flow through your hair.

Despite the rocky start to the morning, the hours pass by easily, weightlessly. Sometimes you talk with Mando, other times you simply sit and watch the world pass by. You don't think you've ever seen this much land in one go, and it thrills you. The idea that there's so much _more_. 

The topics vary from your time in school to movies to the truck. You're surprised to find out that Mando's never seen _Star Wars_ , a fact nearly unheard of to you. You promise yourself that you'll make him watch it sometime, somehow.

Lunch passes without incident; you insist on paying for your ham and cheese sandwich, because Mando had covered breakfast before you could protest. It hits the spot, along with your ice-cold Coke from the little market's freezer. There's a line to get gas, as there is everywhere, but luckily it isn't too long, since you're in the middle of nowhere. Mando won't be able to fill the truck up again for a few days, meaning you'll have to stop for the night earlier tonight than you did yesterday.

You do find something interesting at the market and you decide to shell out the money for it because it intrigues you. A new style of Kodamatic camera, complete with a pack of instant film - 12 potential photos.

In your mind you see pictures of mountains, and the truck, and _Mando_ , and you stuff the camera in your bag before your mind can wander any further down that road.

You have to admit - traveling with someone who you know can protect you if the need arises is comforting in a way that almost makes you nervous. You keep telling yourself not to get used to it, that this is just a temporary situation for as long as he sees fit to keep you around. After he decides he's had enough, he'll leave you, and you'll be on your own again. You can't get too dependent on him.

Nighttime arrives much too quickly. The sun has just dipped below the horizon when you drive into another small town, not much more than a stoplight and a few bars. You get lucky, though, because the unmistakable neon of a motel glows just ahead.

"Thank _god_ ," you groan as Mando pulls into the parking lot. "I need a shower so goddamned _bad_."

Mando chuckles. His arm rests with his hand out the window, flicking the ash at the end of his cigarette out onto the pavement. The orange glow at the end of it brightens as he takes a drag, and you tear your eyes away from his lips before he can catch you staring.

That's another problem. He's every inch as attractive to you now as he was before, except now you know he's _nice_. The mustache and the dark curls and the broad expanse of his chest are all only made hotter by the knowledge that he likes Carole King and Elton John (he knew all the words to _Tiny Dancer_ ) and blueberry pancakes.

Plus there was that whole punching a guy to defend your honor business.

The guy at the motel's front desk reminds you of Marvin. Greasy blond hair and acne on a kid not much younger than you. You give him a disgusted look when he eyes you up, but he cuts it out when Mando walks in behind you. It gives you a small sense of satisfaction to see him so meek before your companion.

"We need a double for the night," Mando drawls, counting cash on the counter, cig perched between his lips. The sign advertised a night's stay for $22. You'd tried to pay Mando your share, but he'd refused your money.

The kid shakes his head. "Only got singles available."

Mando raises his brows. "Really."

The kid, whose name is Matt according to his name tag, nods. It takes Mando a moment to think on it, and then he looks to you.

You shrug. "I'm fine with it if you are, Mando."

He nods once and pays for the room. 12. You take the key and head over to get a head start on your shower while Mando parks the truck and gets his stuff.

The hot water feels divine. Even the towel feels great, because as threadbare and shitty as it is, it's clean and warm from sitting under the vent. You finish up in the bathroom and emerge in a pair of old track shorts and a loose-fitting tee.

Mando's sitting on the bed, back against the headboard. His jacket's draped across the table and he's kicked off his boots, so he sits with the remote in hand, barefoot. It's the most casual you've seen him thus far, and it makes your heart race.

"Shower's all yours," you tell him.

Mando looks at you from the corner of his eye. It's hard to tell what he's thinking at any given moment, so you fidget with the hem of your shirt as he looks at you. 

A thought blooms unbidden in your chest. _I wish I could kiss him_.

You blink, taken aback at the sudden, intense nature of your desire to feel his lips against your own. Not knowing what else to do, you cross your arms and turn to the TV. Bonanza is on.

"Seen this episode before?" you ask. It's an old show, but you still like it.

Mando nods, humming. "Used to watch these every week, right when they came out. Only the first few seasons, though."

"Why'd you stop?"

He turns to sit on the edge of the bed, feet flat on the ground. He gives you a small smile, though his eyes hide something pained.

"I got drafted."

 _Oh._ "Oh. I didn't mean -"

"It's fine," he says and gets up, brushing past you to enter the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind him.

You walk over to sit on the other side of the bed from where he was. Drafted. Jesus. You feel bad for bringing it up, even if it was unintentional. The TV plays though you aren't watching, mind wandering to thoughts of Mando in Vietnam. You picture him in the jungle or in a helicopter, the deafening noise of artillery and gunfire filling the air around him.

Maybe that's where he got the nickname. It certainly explains the rifle.

You reach over for the remote and shut off the TV. The clock on the wall reads about 8:00, still early for you, but you tuck yourself under the sheets and blanket regardless. You face the door, away from where Mando will sleep.

Just as you're drifting off, the lamp on the bedside table clicks off. You feel the weight of Mando crawling in beside you, and he too curls up on his side, back turned.

You fall asleep hoping he's not too upset with you.

The next thing you know, you're awake, though the world is still dark outside. Behind you, Mando snores softly, warm breath fanning out across your neck.

Wait.

You blink a few times and realize the two of you must have shifted in the night. Mando's body is pressed right against yours, chest to your back, arm draped over your middle and hand tucked under your chin. Your legs are intertwined and against the back of your thigh you feel -

You feel _him_.

Sleep is a powerful drug, however, and the realization is not enough to make you move. Your eyelids flutter shut, and you think maybe this isn't so bad. Your tired brain convinces you to revel in it, to enjoy this position you've found yourself in. Before you can second guess that reasoning, you drift off.

And then you're awake _again_. 

This time it's thanks to a rush of cold wind in your face. You reach back to feel for Mando, but the warm pillow tells you he's not there. You open your eyes to see him standing in the doorway, looking down at something. It's still dark out, but the lights of the motel parking lot put him in silhouette before you.

"What is it?" You lean up on your elbow to get a better look. The nighttime air is cool on your face, smelling faintly of gasoline and rain.

He bends down and picks up whatever it is that's in front of him. You watch as he turns to look left, then right, seemingly in search of something. He turns around and you see what he's holding.

It's a baby's carrycot.

You immediately sit up, heart racing. "Is it -?" you whisper.

Mando nods, closing the door behind him. You get out of bed and rush over to stand next to him, peering into the carrier.

Sure enough, there's a baby asleep inside. It looks to be a boy, about a year old. You bring a hand up to your mouth.

"Why - who would - _what_?"

Mando shakes his head, staring at the little guy. "I don't know. I heard a knock at the door and there he was - no sign of anyone else."

"We should - what do we _do_ , Mando?"

He brings the carrier over to rest on the table beside his jacket. The boy is out cold - his little hands grip the blue knitted blanket and his mouth is just barely open. He's got dark hair, wispy and soft atop his head. As you observe the sleeping child, you notice the corner of a small piece of paper tucked in between the blanket and the cradle. You reach out and grasp it between your thumb and forefinger, unfolding it carefully.

"What does it say?" Mando whispers. Your voices are low so as to not disturb the child.

" _Grogu. Please take him far from here,_ " you read, and feel your blood run cold as the note goes on. _"Not safe in this area. His father is dangerous."_

It's scrawled in blue ink on half a sheet of lined notebook paper, the fringe from being torn still attached. Your hands shake as it hits you - there's some mother out there so scared for her son that she left him in the care of strangers. That there's a man out there who legitimately threatens this boy's life.

Tears form at the corners of your eyes, rage and sadness simmering in your chest.

"We have to, Mando." Your words are shaky but certain. The man beside you rests a hand on the carrycot, still looking at the sleeping child within.

You turn your eyes to him. He nods, solemn.

"Let's let him rest. We'll leave in the morning, get as far west as we can. Might even be able to make Texas if we leave early enough. We can figure it out from there."

His other hand brushes against your back, and then he's drawing you into his chest. The embrace is soft, unhurried, and you lean your head against his shoulder, hands tucked against his chest. Letting your eyes slip closed, you think back on the previous day, how you never could have predicted this turn of events. How you've never felt so uncertain of things, even when you'd lost everything.

Together you return to bed, but neither of you gets much sleep.


	2. TWO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said part 2 was gonna be longer? Yeah. Was not joking.
> 
> This is coming a bit later than I'd anticipated: I'm back at school now, and moving back in was not highly conducive to writing. I'm hoping to do a few more stories over the next couple of months, but if I don't, know it's because of homework (ew, I know). If I do get stuff written, it'll likely be much shorter than this (which isn't difficult lmaoooo oops).
> 
> Kudos and comments are always welcome! I highkey did not proofread this like I should have so if you find any errors let me know. Also will be posted to tumblr under the same username (kingofkingdom). Enjoy!

In the morning, you and Mando are up and about before the boy - Grogu, according to the note - has stirred. Right as you're packing up the last of your clothes, you hear a soft cooing from the carrier.

You rush over to the table the find the child awake, big brown eyes still sleepy. He looks at you, curious about this newcomer into his life, and giggles softly. He's got his two front teeth on the top and bottom.

Grogu's pudgy pink arms stretch out towards you, fingers grasping at air. Your heart clenches and you reach in, gently taking him with one hand under his arms and the other supporting his bottom. Grogu lets out little baby noises that bubble from his mouth. He grabs at your hair and kicks at your arms, socked feet restless.

The door behind you opens, and Mando enters the room. He's put on a different pair of jeans and he's wearing a flannel instead of his leather jacket, with his aviators on and hiding his eyes. When he sees you holding the baby, he stops short.

"When did he wake up?" He pushes his sunglasses up onto the top of his head, dark eyes studying the boy as he holds tight to your shirt. 

“Just now,” you reply, turning so Grogu can face Mando properly. The boy’s eyes light up and he laughs at the sight of him. “He seems to like you already.”

Mando just nods at your words. His face is carefully impassive as he reaches a finger out to the boy, who reaches back. You watch the tender exchange quietly, seeing how Grogu's little hand wraps around Mando's large, calloused finger. Something new passes through Mando's stare, brows furrowing ever so slightly as his thumb comes up to rub at the back of the child's hand. You tilt your head, looking at him with a small smile.

"You wanna hold him?" You're gonna make him do it anyway, even if he refuses. An idea has popped into your head and it's putting happy butterflies in your stomach.

Mando simply puts his hands out. You pass the boy over, making sure he's secure in Mando's arms, and then you rush over to your bag. Quick as anything you rip open the box the camera came in and put in the film, snapping the back shut and winding it 'til it's ready. Behind you, Grogu giggles.

When you turn back to the boys, Mando can't seem to decide whether to look at you or the kid. You show him the camera, and one of his brows raises in a silent question.

"Got it at the market yesterday. Do what you were just doing - pretend I'm not here."

You raise the camera to your eye, squinting to see the image through the viewfinder. You see a miniature picture of Mando as he puffs out his cheeks and crosses his eyes, and you press the trigger to capture the moment just as a huge smile breaks out on Grogu's face.

The picture slides out of the camera slowly. You pull it from the slot and set it on the table. As you're pulling your backpack up onto your shoulders, the image fades in, colors appearing slowly. Mando reaches down and picks it up.

"I look like an idiot," he grumbles, but you can see a hint of a smile beneath his mustache.

"It's sweet," you tell him, slipping the camera into your bag and grabbing the carrycot in your empty hands. "I'll be in the truck."

Mando and Grogu join you shortly after you've put the carrycot in the bed, secure and closed up amongst the boxes. Your traveling companion hands the baby over to you in the passenger seat and pulls the door shut behind him.

"We'll have to figure out diapers," Mando says as he starts out of the parking lot. "And baby food. They -" He looks over at you with wide eyes, then looks quickly back to the road. "He doesn't need... you know... from you..." His hand gestures vaguely in the air, and you see what he's getting at.

You laugh. "No, Mando. He'll be eating soft foods by now. Besides, we could get formula for him if we needed to."

Mando nods, though you can see a hint of pink coloring his cheekbones. It's charming, the fact that this man beside you can get flustered at the thought of breastfeeding. He pulls down his sunglasses in what seems to be an attempt to hide his blush, but you look over at Grogu conspiratorially. The baby smiles back. 

The three of you drive for a while, trying to get out of the neighboring county as quickly as possible. Grogu babbles as you try your best to keep him entertained; from singing along to songs on the radio (eventually, you even convince Mando to join in on a few) to pointing out things out the window, you do your best to avoid a crying, screaming baby. 

One surprising tactic to keeping him quiet was the knob at the end of the shifter. Shiny and round, Grogu held onto that thing like it was gold, staring intently into its reflective surface.

Eventually, though, he gets fussy, so Mando pulls over at a Revco. You take Grogu in your arms and walk in, Mando at your side.

You both find the baby aisle with relative ease. Neither of you know what exactly the best baby products are, though, so you grab diapers and baby powder and food and a few little onesies, even a tiny pair of shoes, all at random. Mando spots something at the other end of the aisle, and before you can ask what it is he's gone to grab it.

He hands Grogu a little stuffed frog, not unlike a character you've seen in a children's book. The baby reaches out and grabs the soft toy, pulling it close to him, pressing his nose against the green fleece.

You look up at Mando, smiling. He shrugs, like he doesn't know either. His eyes are bright, though, like he's perfectly happy with whatever magic he's got that makes the baby love him.

"Excuse me, can I help you both with anything?" The voice of an elderly woman jolts you out of the depths of Mando's eyes, and you turn around to see a little old lady looking at the two of you. Her name tag reads  _ Mary _ .

Words don't come to you immediately, so Mando speaks. "No, thank you, ma'am. We're doing just fine."

Mary smiles, taking the three of you in. She clasps her hands together, pink nails on weathered fingers. "That's a beautiful baby the two of you have."

Again, you're lost for words. You swallow, not wanting to lie, but you feel the blood rushing from your face. Just as you're about to utter a timid  _ thank you _ , you feel a hand on your shoulder.

"Thank you, Mary. We're very proud." Mando gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze. You gather yourself and give her your kindest smile. You then look up at Mando, half to complete the illusion and half to confirm that he's sure about this. He just smiles back, soft and true.

Mary takes a few steps forward. "Oh honey, he's adorable," she coos, and Grogu looks at her warily, clutching the frog closer to his chest. The woman sighs. "He's got your eyes, you know." She looks up at Mando, who simply nods, still smiling.

Your heart swoops when she says it. All rational parts of your body tell you she's just being nice, but some hidden, deep part of yourself swells at the thought. 

You look down at the baby, trying to think of something to say. 

"He's got my appetite, that's for sure," you joke with a strained chuckle. Mary laughs, which calms your nerves slightly. Mando's hand has begun rubbing circles into your shoulder blade, his thumb brushing against the skin of your neck ever so softly.

"Well, if you two need anything, let me know. I remember those days all too well," she says knowingly, and then turns to leave.

You and Mando both breathe a sigh of relief once she's gone. 

-

When the three of you get back to the truck, Grogu's diaper changed (which was an... experience, to say the least) and energy spent, the child falls asleep in your arms. You cradle his head against your elbow, arm resting on the woolen blanket you slept with the other night.

The truck is back on the highway, scenery flying past, granola bar half-eaten in your hand when Mando clears his throat.

"I didn't mean to - to overstep, back there," he says, voice low so as to not disturb Grogu.

You look over at him, confused.

"In the pharmacy. I - I let that woman think... that we were... without asking you -"

Ah. "It's okay, Mando." He looks over at you like he doesn't believe you. "Really, it is. I'd rather a stranger think that we're... well, that we're  _ together _ than have to tell everyone the whole story. It's easier that way."

Mando hums, like he still doesn't buy it but he's accepting it for now. You watch him for a moment, taking in his body language, the way he stares adamantly at the road ahead.

"Would you rather we did things separately from now on?" you ask, the question a genuine one. If he's uncomfortable with it, you'll gladly work on a solution that doesn't put him in that position again.

He shakes his head, both hands gripping the wheel tightly. "No, no. If you really are okay with it, I am too. It's just..."

Mando's words trail off without a resolution. You wait, expecting him to finish his sentence, but he just looks over at you. He worries his teeth against his lower lip and then looks back out the window. The faint pink blush on his cheek has returned.

"Nevermind." His voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper. 

You let it go. Silence fills the space between you for a short while, interrupted only by the quiet sound of the radio. Farmland is turning into prairie, the warm, dry air marking your distinctly westbound path. Ahead of you you see the beginnings of a relatively large city. The signs that appear to your right read  _ Fort Smith, AR _ .

Something pops into your head just then, as you read the welcome sign to this town and watch as businesses and homes pass by. It's something you should have thought of much, much earlier.

"Mando?" you begin, looking to your left for what feels like the hundredth time. He hums, glancing over, before braking for a red light.

"Where were  _ you _ headed when you picked me up?"

Now that you're sitting at a red light, Mando has the opportunity to really look at you from his spot in the driver's seat. He tilts his head, taking a second to reply. He seems to debate whether to tell you or not, as though he'd been trying to keep that bit of information to himself. 

"I was on my way to Little Rock," he answers, watching for your reaction. 

You frown. "Why'd you go around?"

He levels a look at you that tells you it should be obvious why.

"Alright," you say, "then why were you going there in the first place?"

The light turns green, so he turns to focus on the road for a moment. "You and your questions," he mutters, changing lanes to get around a sedan.

"Hey, you should be used to it by now," you retort, but it's not meant as anything more than a tease. He doesn't  _ have _ to answer if he doesn't want to. 

Mando clears his throat. "I guess I should," he says. The road passes under a bridge, so the soft music playing on the radio cuts out for a second.

"It was for work," he tells you. "There was a job there, and I was planning to meet with an old friend of mine to do it and split the profits."

You frown. "Work? You mean you passed up a job for Grogu and me?"

Mando shakes his head. "No, not a job like that. More of a... contract thing. Hired to work for a short time and paid for the trouble."

It still doesn't make much sense to you. "Don't you need the money, though? And what about your friend?"

"No, I'm alright as far as money's concerned," he says with a chuckle, which tells you there might be more to Mando than meets the eye. Guy lives out of a rustbucket Ford and isn't hurting for cash at least a little bit? It's strange. "And I called Poe yesterday to tell him I wouldn't make it, so no loss there."

All you can do is give a "hm" in response. You have a million more questions floating around in your mind - what was the job exactly? How does Mando know this Poe guy?  _ What does he mean he doesn't need money _ ?

Instead of plaguing Mando with a certifiable barrage of questions, enough to rival an interrogation, you reach out to turn up the radio. It's gone to static by now, the voices of different disc jockeys talking about their music just barely audible above the din. You twist the knob to search for a station and land on something a bit different.

"--  _ refer to the outward strength of America, a nation that is at peace tonight everywhere in the world, with unmatched economic power and military might. The threat is nearly invisible in ordinary ways. It is a crisis of confidence." _

It's the president speaking, southern drawl clear and unmistakable. You turn the volume up, intrigued. He must have just delivered this address today - or perhaps it's even being broadcast live.

_ "It is a crisis that strikes at the very heart and soul and spirit of our national will. We can see this crisis in the growing doubt about the meaning of our own lives and in the loss of a unity of purpose for our nation. The erosion of our confidence in the future is threatening to destroy the social and the political fabric of America. _

_ "The confidence that we have always had as a people is not simply some romantic dream or a proverb in a dusty book that we read just on the Fourth of July. It is the idea which founded our nation and has guided our development as a people. Confidence in the future has supported everything else -- public institutions and private --" _

Mando reaches out to change the station before you can tell him not to. He lands on a soft rock station, playing America's  _ Ventura Highway _ . 

"I'd rather a musician tell me the country's gone to shit than the president," he says, by way of an explanation. "At least with music I can focus on something other than the words."

You nod and settle back, stretching your legs out in front of you. Carter's not the worst, in your opinion - Nixon's the one who's earned that title by a long shot - but you could tell whatever he was about to say would have depressed the hell out of you.

And so it goes for miles. Once he wakes up again, Grogu's attention moves from the shifter knob to the frog plush to the spoonfuls of baby food you give him around lunchtime, until eventually you have to pull over for a bathroom break and to change his diaper. You're in Oklahoma now - Mando tells you Lubbock should be the stop for tonight, that he'll find the three of you a proper hotel this time instead of motels or truck camping.

You want to tell him not to worry, that you'll sleep anywhere he parks the truck for the night. As long as he's - well. No need to dwell on it.

After your pit stop, the road stretches out in front of you like a ribbon laid across the plains, grey and shimmering in the summertime heat. The sun shines overhead, hot and bright and unobstructed. The windows are down, tossing your hair this way and that, the smell of fertilizer wafting in from the farms that surround you. You look over at Mando - he looks as relaxed as you've ever seen him, hair fluttering in the wind and left leg bouncing in time to the radio.

On a whim you lean down to grab your camera from your bag. You turn it towards Mando, catching him off guard when you press the shutter to capture his features in profile.

He glances at you when he hears it, sees you take the picture from the camera and set it on your thigh. 

You're so focused on watching the picture develop that Mando's able to reach out and snatch the camera from you, one hand still on the wheel. He fumbles with it for a moment, somehow managing to wind the film one-handed, before he points the lens at you.

"Say 'cheese'," he tells you, and he says it in such a monotone, deep voice that it makes you burst out in laughter. He presses his thumb down on the trigger, capturing you mid-laugh. Grogu is staring up at you with a smile, small hands fisted in your t-shirt.

Mando waits until he can pull the photo out of the camera, and then he hands it back to you. You take it, though you eye the small square of film, because he's keeping it just out of your reach.

"Can I see it?" 

He smirks, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. You can see the color fading in, the shape of you barely discernible from where you sit. Once he's content with how much it's developed, Mando slips the photo into the pocket of his flannel.

"Nope," he says, with a finality that both frustrates you and makes your heart beat just a little bit faster. 

You don't respond to that, instead choosing to put your photo and camera back into your bag. You think of the small picture slipping to the bottom of the bag, not to be found until long after this precious moment is over. Long after you've made sure Grogu is safe, after Mando has dropped you off somewhere sunny and bittersweet. You'll reach in, looking for a spare dollar bill or candy bar, and your hand will brush against the soft plastic of the long-since developed memory. You'll pull it out and wish you could travel back in time, look at that profile in person once more.

All this passes through your brain in an instant, quicker than you can blink. It hits you like a knife to your chest.

Grogu's baby noises pull you out of your wandering thoughts. You sit up, arranging him more comfortably on your lap. It doesn't do to dwell on the future, you tell yourself. It'll only make you want that which you know isn't possible. To pull your mind back to the present, you look out the window again, over the top of Grogu's head.

Approaching steadilyon on your right, a large white sign catches your eye, words hand painted in black lettering. 

**_THANK U VIETNAM VETS_ **

It's not a common sentiment, but not surprising to find in rural Oklahoma. The war may have ended years ago, but there remain plenty of people in the US that harbor anger and distrust towards those who served in Vietnam. There are still journalists sharing takes on how veterans are killers and monsters; in fact, you remember seeing one such article in the New York Times last Sunday.

Despite yourself, you look over at Mando. He gestures to the sign with his chin, face neutral and teasing smile from before gone.

"What do you think?" he asks, clearly trying to sound impartial.

Grogu squirms, reaching towards his frog, so you hand it over to him. You sigh, one hand on the baby's back, the other resting between you and Mando on the seat.

"I don't think you're all murderers and child-eaters, if that's what you're asking," you tell him honestly. "I may not have the most positive opinion on the war itself, but... it's, well, it's unfair to put that on the soldiers."

Mando's quiet at your words. He clenches his jaw, pursing his lips, before he speaks again.

"Some of what they say is true."

You don't respond, instead waiting to hear what he has to say. You can tell it's been on his mind - the sign you passed by just provided him an opportunity to talk about it.

"I was drafted in '65, in one of the first rounds. Couldn't dodge it - wasn't in school and was too poor to afford a way out. I was stationed in Da Nang - we were the first Marines on Vietnamese soil. I won't bore you with the details, but eventually I was moved to Saigon, then Hue. I was overseas for a total of 4 years."

Four years... you think back on what you know about the war, the events you vaguely remember seeing on the news, and what that means Mando was involved in. The Tet Offensive was definitely in that period, and you think My Lai was too. The massacre that made so many headlines, that stirred up anti-war and anti-veteran sentiments like nothing before it, was an atrocity committed by Army men - so Mando couldn't have been involved.

"The reason I'm telling you this is because I think you should understand something. I was ultimately promoted to gunnery sergeant, which meant that I had more say in things than your average private - I was no officer, but people looked up to me." He glances at you, emphasizing his point. "I was proud of my men, many of whom I was good friends with. But the fighting was ugly.  _ Real _ ugly, sometimes. I don't want to you to think any of us were saints. That's not the truth."

You take a moment to absorb what he's saying. It seems as though he's ashamed, deep down, of his service and of those four years. You wish he wasn't, and you wish you could help him be proud of his own bravery, but that's an internal struggle you're entirely unfamiliar with. He clearly knows a lot of shit about what the US military was up to, and it still haunts him.

"Did you believe in the cause?" you ask, though you know it's a difficult question to answer. Mando chuckles, dry and humorless.

"At first I did. I was just a kid, barely old enough to drink, and I thought I could go out there and fight the bad guys like they did in the second World War. That this country was noble and fought for liberty. By '69, after what I'd seen, I wasn't too sure about that anymore." He rubs his thumb and forefinger across his forehead, other hand cupping the steering wheel lazily. "I definitely know it's a load of horseshit now."

"Tell me about the men you were friends with."

Mando smiles at that, and you're glad you changed the subject. "There were six of us who were real close. Me, Finn, Poe - the guy I mentioned before, Boba, Mayfeld, and Cassian. They were, and are, some great friends of mine. We even got matching tattoos, if you can believe it."

You raise your brows. "Really? Don't tell me it's on your ass, Mando."

He chuckles at that, shaking his head. "No, it isn't. Promise."

Crossing your arms, you give him a sly look. "I don't believe you."

Mando glances over at you when you say that, face suddenly a bit more serious. You stand your ground, arms still crossed, eyebrows still raised. He looks you up and down - a subtle movement of his eyes alone, but you catch it. Your brain stores away the mental image of him checking you out. His next words are soft and careful in his low voice, gaze having returned to the road ahead.

"You wanna find out?"

_ Yes. _ Your heart and mind answer immediately, but your mouth is not so hasty. You look down at Grogu, who's been watching the exchange the whole time. He stares back at you, brown eyes bright and curious.

"Mando should be careful," you tell the boy, "otherwise he might get what he asks for."

The man beside you hums. He grips the steering wheel just a bit more tightly; the muscles in his forearms flex and it puts all sorts of thoughts in your head.

Neither of you says anything for a while. The moment has passed, as fleeting as the cars passing in the opposite lane. Before you can think better of it, you reach out to grasp Mando's free hand. He allows it, letting you take his palm in yours. Your fingers trace the veins and tendons on the back of his hand like a map, feeling his knuckles and fingers and imagining the weight they have carried.

"Thank you for your service, Mando." The words are hushed, nearly a whisper, hardly more than a thought breathed out into the air. You look over at him. He's not looking back, but you can see tension in his jaw at your words. "In case no one's ever told you that before. Thank you."

Mando nods, turns to look at you, and then looks away. He swallows and curls his fingers, interlacing his own with yours.

"Din," he says, voice rough with unspoken emotion. He glances over at you again. "My name. It's Din -- Din Djarin."

You can't help but smile, both of your hands cradling his like it's something precious, like if you let go he'll be gone. You stare at his profile until the outline has burned itself into your eyelids, present every time you blink. "It's nice to meet you, Din Djarin."

-

That evening, you stop at the local Wal-Mart for some pre-made dinners and prepare to spend the night in some "real lodging" - Din's words, not yours. According to Din, real lodging is the third floor of a Holiday Inn, complete with a hot continental breakfast in the morning.

You're still getting used to calling him Din. It warms your heart every time you say it, every time you say his name and he turns to look at you when he hears it. You find yourself doing it randomly just because it makes you smile.

You had told him your name after he'd shared his. Things have felt different since - like the two of you are more than just travel companions - though you've been trying to keep yourself grounded, realistic about it. At Wal-Mart, old ladies and middle-aged moms and little kids look at the three of you like you're a  _ family _ , and seeing those looks is something you could get used to, which scares you half to death. You've never wanted kids, never even really dreamed of a family to call your own, but this - this is far too close to perfect for your liking.

Instead of dwelling on it, you settle for snapping a photo of Din pushing the cart with Grogu in the seat. Then you take one of Din crouching next to Grogu as the baby stands, wobbly on his feet, in front of a display of plushies - their backs to you.

You have seven left.

When the three of you are finally in your room, meals eaten and baby full, clean, and fast asleep, you and Din sit on the bed together and watch  _ Wheel of Fortune _ , because it's either that or some televangelist at this hour. You've already showered and changed into your pajamas, as has Din, who sits next to you in plaid sleep pants and a t-shirt.

An unspoken agreement had passed between the two of you when you stood at the front desk to check in. Another single room, even though the Holiday Inn surely has more than enough doubles.

"Civil Servant" ends up being the answer. The hint had been "Occupation", and you'd groaned in frustration when the woman who'd been doing so well bought an 'O'. 

Din chuckles softly at you. You look up at him, his face glowing in the light from the television set. He carefully, slowly lifts his arm so you can move in closer, until you're curled up against him. He wraps his arm around your back, settling his hand on your hip.

You turn back to watch the TV. It's gone to commercial, but you're not paying attention, not really.

Your hand finds its way to Din's stomach, fingers pressing lightly against the softness you feel there. Evidence of a life well-lived.

"Can I tell you something,  _ cyar'ika _ ?" he asks, voice a low whisper. You don't recognize the name he calls you, but you look up at him and nod anyway.

Din's pretty brown eyes meet your own, and you feel yourself easily fall into them, entranced by the tenderness you find there.

"I'd like to kiss you," he murmurs, his words an echo of the longing that lives deep in your heart. 

"Can I tell you something, Din?" You repeat his words back to him. He nods, bringing his free hand up to tuck a piece of your hair behind your ear.

"I'd like to kiss you, too."

Din's smile is like a million-watt lightbulb in that dim hotel room. He cups your face in his hand and leans down, slowly lowering himself over you so he can press his lips to yours. His fingers guide your face up to meet him.

You lean into the kiss, shivers running down your spine as Din sweeps your hair back, giving him easier access to touch and hold the skin of your neck. His lips are slightly chapped, but they're everything you dreamed of and more, plush and warm and inviting. His mustache tickles your upper lip, stubble rubbing coarse against your chin, but it's a feeling you immediately crave. 

Your hand slips under his shirt to feel at his bare skin. Din is a veritable furnace, it seems - his midsection is so warm that you instinctually draw yourself closer when you feel it, your body naturally seeking his heat. While your lips dance a floating, gentle waltz to the quiet sounds of late night television, your hand trails up Din's abdomen, fingers brushing ever so softly against one of his nipples.

He sucks in a breath, lips still pressed against yours, and then he smiles.

"Did you want to see the tattoo?" he murmurs. You nod, breathing out a hushed " _ yes _ ", your faces still only centimeters apart. 

Din reaches down and you lean back, withdrawing your arm from underneath his shirt. He shifts so he can pull the shirt over his head without disrupting you too much.

Your eyes are immediately drawn to a dark shape on his ribcage, which upon closer inspection seems to be a stylized rhino skull. It's about the size of a playing card - small enough to not engulf his midsection but large enough to be seen. You reach out and trace your fingers along it, watching as goosebumps form in the wake of your touch.

Then Din's arms are around you again, encircling your frame and pressing into your spine. Your hands remain glued to his skin, one covering his tattoo, the other resting on his pec. He shifts you both so that you're flat on your back, him leaning over you with a leg hooked over your thigh. Din brings his lips to ghost against yours again, the warmth of his breath a balm on your cool flesh. You savor every inch of him that you feel against you, from his ankle and the top of his foot resting against your calf to the gentle, barely-there touch of his nose against your cheek.

All of it is like water in a desert, like a warm blanket in the dead of winter. Enticing and comforting and too easily used up, too readily taken for granted.

"I want you, Din," you whisper to him, finally admitting the truth both to the object of your desire and to yourself. Once the words are out of your mouth, they become real, and you find you can do nothing but accept the inevitable.

Din smiles, huffing out an exhale at your confession. He presses his lips to yours once again and you immediately return the kiss, seeking as much of him as he allows you to have. But then he pulls away, much too soon. 

"I want you too,  _ cyar'ika _ . Believe me, I do. But we can't."

He glances in the general direction of where Grogu sleeps in his carrycot, peaceful and warm in his blankets. To wake him now would be nothing short of a crime for the rest it would cost all three of you. As much as you want to move things along, Din is right.

You take a second to study his face, now that you have the chance. The arch of his lips, the curve of his nose, the way his eyes glimmer and shine for you in the shifting light of the television. How  _ happy _ he looks.

You smile at him. "I want you however I can have you, Din."

It promises more while accepting how things must be. You fantasize about laying with Din under the stars in the bed of his truck, about dipping your head down beneath the steering wheel to take him in your mouth while he drives, about waking up to a mop of dark brown waves between your thighs. You can have none of it while Grogu is in your care, because that child deserves guardians who can provide him their full attention.

That doesn't mean you can't have this, such as it is.

You kiss him again, deep and full of the desire that’s consumed you since the moment you got a good look at him through the passenger side window of his truck. He kisses back like he’s thinking the same, cradling you like you’re a precious creature he's privileged to hold.

Sleep is pulling gently, insistently at your eyes. You reach over to where you think the remote is, somewhere forgotten on the plain blue comforter, and switch the TV off as soon as your thumb finds the power button. Darkness envelops the room. You feel Din move his face down your neck to rest on your chest, ear pressed against the space between your breasts. His hair brushes your chin and his arms rest on either side of you.

You bring a hand up to toy with a lock of his hair, the other resting lightly on his back, rising and falling with his breathing. For a man who at first seems so rough around the edges, Din is surprisingly cuddly. You think back to the previous night, to waking up with him curled around you. It seems there's a softer side to him, one that you've caught glimpses of thus far, but that you definitely want to see more of.

As you're gently massaging Din's scalp, you think back to something he said earlier. "What was that name you called me?" you ask. It didn't sound like any language you're familiar with, and you know the mystery of it will plague you if you don't ask.

Din hums and you feel him smile. "It's from my culture, where I was raised. It means... well, the closest I can think of is sweetheart."

It feels like your heart grows three sizes when he says that. You want to ask more - to know more about Din Djarin and the life he's led - but sleep quietly pulls both of you under.

-

Neither of you want to acknowledge it, but today you must find a safe place to leave Grogu.

Din suggested finding an orphanage in the area while you proposed a church, though the conversation over breakfast was short and quickly abandoned once you both realized how much you didn't want to think about it.

Instead, Din went up to the front desk and asked about something he didn't let you in on.

"Wait, are we not moving on from Lubbock, then?" you ask when you realize he's got something up his sleeve. You're walking out of the hotel, Grogu in your arms, dressed in a little red onesie you got at the Revco. It's got a little teddy bear embroidered on the front.

Din shakes his head, loading the carrycot into the truck bed and pushing the tailgate closed. "No, not right away. We've got a couple stops first."

He doesn't elaborate, simply turning and getting into the truck. You sigh and look down at Grogu, who babbles at a woman walking by with a dog on a leash. Din is up to something.

His first stop is a Sears in a strip mall near the hotel. He pulls into a parking spot, parks the truck, and reaches over to take the baby from you. You hand the boy over with a supremely confused look on your face. He takes the child and then reaches to grab his leather wallet from his back pocket, flipping it open to pull out a twenty.

"Din, what -"

He cuts you off with a pointed look, handing the money over to you folded in half, held between his first two fingers. "Take it. Go and get yourself something you can swim in."

You take the bill hesitantly. "Something I can swim in?"

He nods. "Something you can swim in." He turns to Grogu, making funny faces at the boy and clearly ignoring you until you leave.

Oh-kay. Huh. Weird, but you do as he says. You hop out of the truck and make your way across the parking lot.

Inside, there are mannequins and displays everywhere, and shoppers bustle around like honeybees. The last time you were in a Sears, you were with some friends from grade school helping one of the girls pick a new outfit to impress the boy she liked. It seems like a lifetime ago that you were hanging out with girls in your hometown - by now they're all either married, soon to be married, or hooked on drugs. 

You see a gaggle of young girls pass you by and into the clothing section. Your heart hurts at the sight - you miss that togetherness. After everything that happened, you don't know if you'll ever find it again.

_ Or maybe you already have _ , a small voice tells you, deep in your mind.

You walk down the aisles and spot the swimsuit section easily enough. This summer's styles are pretty cute, and Din gave you just enough money for either a one-piece or a two-piece.  _ Who decided to sell bikini tops and bottoms separately? _ you think as you browse, thumbing through the hangers, looking for a cute cut and pattern in your size.

Eventually you decide on a plain yellow two-piece, with a tie in the front and high-waisted bottoms. It's pretty simple, but you can swim in it, and that was Din's criteria.

You check out, giving the bored-looking cashier a kind smile for her trouble, and leave the store with your purchase tucked safely in a small paper bag. The truck is right where you left it, as are Din and Grogu once you get in.

"Can I see?" Din asks, leaning over to look down into your bag. You snatch it away, folding the top down and sticking your tongue out at him.

"Nope. You have your secrets, I'll have mine."

Din chuckles. "Alright,  _ cyar'ika _ ." He takes the baby and gently hands him over, the child's small arms reaching out to you. You take him, setting him in his usual spot on your lap. "Be that way."

You reach out to swat at Din, which he dodges, smiling playfully. He takes his sunglasses from their spot on his collar, puts them on, then starts off out of the parking lot, all still with that stupid smile on his face.

You find yourself staring over at it, at him, probably looking equally stupid.

Din drives for awhile before you figure out where you're going, after seeing a second brown sign for it alongside the road.

"A lake? That's - why are - what?"

Buffalo Springs Lake is advertised on the sign as boasting nature trails as well as a recreational beach and boat launches. It sounds fun, sure, but you can't imagine why Din's brought the three of -

And then it hits you. Today's probably the last day either of you will have with Grogu, and after that, your future together is incredibly uncertain. This is his - and your - last chance to really spend time around the kid. Your heart clenches at the realization. You look over at Din as he turns the truck down the entrance road. His expression is neutral, but you've looked at him enough in the past few days to know that he's thinking the same thing you are.

The baby's grown on the both of you - but you can't spend much longer than this midday trip with him, for his sake and yours.

Din pulls into a gravel lot, parking the truck next to a small sedan in the shade of a young maple tree. In the distance you can see the beach - it doesn't look too crowded, but then again it is still morning. Only two or three families are out enjoying the sun, plus a few couples.

"We'll use that blanket under the seat as a towel." Din says. "I've got a few extra snacks in the back, and some sunscreen."

You nod and hand Grogu over to him again. "I'll be right back, gotta go change."

The restrooms are small and smell of lake water, and you think you see a few spiders in the corner of the stall, so you change quickly. You put your t-shirt back on over the suit, since the shirt is long enough to act like a cover-up anyway, and stuff the rest of your clothes in the Sears bag. You slip your sandals back on and emerge from the restroom, only to be greeted by what's probably the best sight you've seen in your life.

Din stands there, Grogu on his hip, in nothing more than some short swim trunks and his shades. He's got a tote bag in his other hand with the blanket-towel draped over his shoulder. There's a couple more tattoos on his legs that you hadn't noticed before - one looks like some sort of fantasy creature around his calf, and the other is an unusual style of writing on his thigh. You stop short and do a double-take, because for a split second you can't believe that all of that is  _ yours _ . And then you remember it isn't, not really.

"Ready to go,  _ cyar'ika _ ?" Din asks, swinging the bag in the direction of the beach. You nod, smiling.

The two of you set up in the shade at the back of the beach, sitting Grogu on the blanket with his frog. He sits and watches the people and the trees with that fascination only a one-year-old can have, bright-eyed and eager about it all. Din stretches out on one side of the baby and you sit cross legged on the other.

You toy with the hem of your shirt, and before you can fall into a downward spiral of insecurity, you quickly slip it off.

Din's eyes dart over to you at your movement and widen comically when you discard your shirt over near the tote bag. You blush at his stare, watching as his eyes rake over your exposed curves. You've never thought of yourself as particularly gifted in terms of your physique, but with the way Din's looking at you right now... an argument could be made.

"Do you like it?" you ask, somewhat meek under his scrutiny. Din scoffs, a  _ 'pshh' _ sound that tells you it should be obvious.

"Do I  _ like _ it?" he repeats, sitting up to get a better look at you. "Sweetheart, you look fucking  _ amazing _ ." He smiles at you to deter your deepening blush, leaning back on his hands. "Do a spin for me."

Your racing heart at the new pet name is calmed only by his request, because of  _ course _ he wants to see your backside.

Luckily, you're happy to oblige.

You stand and brush away the feeling of scratchy wool on your butt, eyes on Mando's face as he sees your nearly-bare form fully for the first time. The bikini isn't skimpy, but by nature of being a bikini it doesn't leave much to the imagination. The top is rather thin, too, which you imagine Din will enjoy after you get in the water.

You put your hands out and spin once. Din makes a circle motion with his finger when you're facing him again. 

"Slower," he says, and you roll your eyes.

You spin slower, allowing him ample time to get a look at you. Behind you, he hums, and you see a distinctly pleased-looking expression on his face when you're done. 

You sit back down with a huff, pretending to be annoyed. Grogu babbles at you, cute as ever, so it's hard to stay mad, even if you're faking it.

"I don't know about you, but I wanna go in," you say, and reach in the tote bag to get the sunscreen. You pop the cap open and squeeze a dollop onto your hand, then you begin rubbing it into the skin of your legs.

Din just watches. 

"You know," you begin, not looking at him, "when you first picked me up I was worried you were just another creep with ulterior motives."

He hums at that, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together in front of him. You rub the last of the sunscreen into your thigh and start on your arms.

"Now, I know you are," you finish, smirking.

Din barks out a laugh. "Well, no one's ever accused me of being a gentleman."

_ Well, that's not entirely accurate _ , you think as you put sunscreen on your stomach and chest. Even though you're not looking at him, you can feel Din's eyes zero in on your hands when you rub the lotion into the area around your bikini top.

"You're more a gentleman than most," you reply, glancing over at him. He raises his eyebrows like he doesn't believe you.

"Here, let me get your back," he offers, holding out a hand. You give him the bottle and scoot over to sit between his legs. On his portion of the blanket, Grogu has found a stick, and is poking at the sand with it.

You take your hair and move it over your shoulder to allow Din full access to the expanse of your back. He rubs the lotion between his palms to warm it, and then he's pressing his hands to your skin.

Din rubs the sunscreen into your back in swirling patterns, circling from the middle outward; first, up to your shoulders, then down your sides and to your lower back. His large hands are gentle but firm, careful with you but clear in their intent to do a good job. You glance back at him when he runs his fingers along your spine, and his concentrated expression is totally endearing. You turn back and smile to yourself.

When it's gotten to the point where he should have been done, you look back at him again with a brow raised. His hands have passed over your hips and lower back a few extra times, and as much as you love feeling his touch, there's water to swim in and fun to be had. 

"Let me do you," you offer and reach for the sunscreen. Din chuckles, handing it over, and then you realize your Freudian slip. 

You roll your eyes and gesture for him to turn around. "Not like that, smartass." Then, under your breath as you're putting some sunscreen onto your hand, you mutter, "not right now, anyway."

Din turns so his back is to you and you discover yet  _ another _ tattoo; this one is the same style of writing as what's on his thigh, running along his spine from beneath the waistband of his swim shorts to just between his shoulder blades. As with the script on his leg, the language is unfamiliar to you. You reach out and run your fingers along it - the letters are thin and angular, unlike anything you've ever seen before.

"Is this your culture's language?" you ask. "Like cyar -  _ cyar'ika _ is?"

Din nods. "Yes. My parents were part of a - an ethno-religious group, I guess you could call it." You begin rubbing the sunscreen onto his back as he speaks, listening intently. "We were all immigrants, living out in the middle of nowhere, hours from the nearest city. There was a huge emphasis on self-defense and sort of this... clan culture. Your family was your clan, and you lived and died for them, no matter what. We spoke our own language,  _ Mando'a _ . As a group we called ourselves Mandalorians."

You hum, tracing along the lettering on his spine again. "So that explains why you asked me to call you Mando. I'm sorry I made fun of it, Din."

He shakes his head, glancing back at you. "No need to apologize. You didn't know."

It still makes you feel bad, regardless. You rub sunscreen onto his shoulders, broad and sun-kissed as they are. "What does it say?"

"It translates roughly to, ' _ Not gone, merely marching far away' _ . I got it in honor of my mother and father, after they died."

You pause in your ministrations, finally finished with his back. It tugs at your heart, this idea of a young Din, so dedicated to his family, grieving so deeply. "That's beautiful, Din. I'm sorry for your loss."

He turns to face you more fully. "Thank you,  _ cyar'ika _ ." He reaches up and gently cups your cheek, leaning forward to place a kiss on your forehead. Shivers erupt on your skin at the sweet gesture, intimate and fleeting all at once. "Let's go have some fun, yeah?"

You nod, smiling. Grogu babbles loudly next to you, clearly fed up with how long the two of you are taking. You laugh, take the child in your arms, his little shorts acting as swim apparel, and stand.

"You go on ahead," Din instructs, standing up as well. "I've got to put on the rest of my sunscreen and grab something from the truck."

"Okay," you reply, and turn to bring Grogu down to the water's edge.

It's a warm day - not stifling, but enough that cool lake water is going to feel great. You find a section of open beach, where you won't interfere with another family, and set Grogu down on his wobbly legs right where the gentle waves lap at the sand. You sit down next to him, legs bent at the knee and toes resting in the cool water.

Grogu steps forward once before losing balance on his wobbly legs. You catch him as he plops down, helping him to sit. The baby giggles as the water brushes up against his leg.

"Here," you tell him, scooping up a clump of sand in your hand. "You can make things with it." You press your hands together a few times and show him the resulting "ball" of wet sand.

Grogu babbles and reaches down to press his little hand into the earth. He curls his fingers, giggling at the feeling of sand squishing between them. He looks up at you and smiles.

You grin back. "Pretty fun, isn't it?"

Behind you, you hear the telltale sound of a camera's shutter. You whirl around to see Din with your camera, beaming at the two of you.

You're not even slightly annoyed, because seeing Din look at you like that makes your heart just  _ sing _ . With a laugh, you reach out for the camera. 

"Why don't you take him into the water, I'll get one of the two of you."

Din holds the camera towards himself. "Wait, just one more for me, really quick."

You look at him, tilting your head. He gestures with his hand. 

"Turn towards me a bit more." You do so, placing a hand behind you. "There." 

He puts the camera up to his eye and you give him your brightest smile. At this angle, you think he's mostly capturing the line of your body in the bikini, but you couldn't think to manage a solemn model-face with how happy you are right now.

"God," he mutters as he watches the photo develop, squatting down so he can hold the image out for you to see. "You look  _ divine _ ."

You see yourself in that photo through Din's eyes, through his perspective. There you are, in your bikini, legs and torso stretched out nicely, but your eyes are immediately drawn to the smile on your face. You'd be taken aback at how happy you look if it weren't for the fact that it mirrors exactly how you feel. It's one of the best photos of you that you've ever seen.

You look up at Din, whose gaze has shifted from the photo to your face. Leaning up a bit, you reach out to pull him towards you and place a chaste kiss on his lips.

"Go on," you tell him, taking the camera and the photos from him while he's close. "Bring Grogu into the water."

Din chuckles, but he obliges, moving over to pick up the boy. You watch as he wades out into the shallows until Grogu's feet brush the surface. You stand up with the camera and trail behind the pair, waiting for the perfect moment to capture.

It's tough, because every moment is perfect. You want to keep them all.

-

The three of you spend the next few hours splashing in the water, sitting together and watching Grogu play, and building rather primitive sand castles. Din really gets into constructing a complex moat-irrigation system for your simple circular tower, diverting water from the lake to your small creation.

Together you eat a late lunch, and after a diaper change, Grogu's eyes are getting heavy out of need of a nap.

You and Din pack up your things, the air between you quiet. Grogu finally falls asleep as you're loading the last few things into the truck, little head resting on your shoulder, arm wrapped tightly around his frog plushie. 

There's a heavy silence in the truck as you two sit there in the parking lot. You used up all but three of your remaining photos, each one a different variation of you and Din and Grogu together. The pictures are safe in your hand, a collection of memories you already miss.

Din decides to break the silence. His voice is tight, like he's trying to mask any emotion that might slip out in his words. "There's an orphanage in town. Seemed like a nice place - big yard, lots of kids running around."

Your eyes well up with tears. You lean your head back, looking up at the roof of the truck to try and keep them from falling. All you can do is nod in agreement, because this is how it has to be. It can't go any other way.

Your bottom lip quivers and you blink a few times.

"Yeah," you choke out. "Yeah, he'll do good there. Grow up -"

A tear falls down your cheek at the thought of Grogu growing up. Little league, gym class, high school, junior prom. A potential life flashes before your eyes - a life you'd never be able to provide for him.

It's that thought that pulls you together. You sniffle and look over at Din, who's staring off into nowhere, eyes shiny and wet.

"We have to, Din."

He nods and puts the truck into reverse. You hold Grogu close, the sleeping boy none the wiser to your heartache.

The orphanage is in a nice part of town, modern and recently remodeled unlike some places you've seen. Din was right, there's a large play-field with a jungle gym and a basketball court. Kids of all ages run around in the sun, laughing and screaming in delight. The sign reads  _ Saint Luke's Home for Children. _

You sit there with the child in your arms while Din retrieves the carrycot. You've parked down the street from the entrance - close enough to see it but far enough to not be seen. 

Din returns and enters the cab with the carrycot, placing it on the bench between you. Carefully, so as to not wake him, you tuck Grogu and his frog amongst his blankets, wrapping him up nicely. You put his clothes in at the bottom end.

You also tuck a note into the folds of his blanket, just as his mother had done. You and Din drafted the letter while he drove, and it reads as follows:

_ Hello, _

_ This is Grogu. Please pass this note (and the photos) on to him when he is old enough to understand. _

_ I am not his mother, nor is my partner his father. We came upon him while traveling and needed to bring him to someplace safe, someplace far from where we found him. We do not know who either of his real parents are. _

_ Enclosed are some photos of Grogu and us while he was in our care. We have included these to show you (and him) that he is very much loved by two strangers who had the honor of giving him their time and energy, even if we cannot provide for his needs in the long term. _

_ We wish him nothing but the best. Please do right by him. He has made our lives better in ways he’ll never know. _

Included are each of the photos you took with Grogu in them, except two - Din keeps the one he took of you and the child, but didn’t let you see, and you keep the very first photo you took, the one in the motel room.

Everything is in place. The child is fast asleep, and all of his things are tucked in the carrycot.

Now it’s time to complete the most difficult task you’ve ever undertaken.

It goes by in a blur, if you’re completely honest with yourself. One minute you’re shutting the truck’s door, the next you’re on the step and ringing the doorbell. In a flash you’re back in the truck, watching as the big wooden doors open to reveal a young, blonde man in a priest’s uniform. He looks down and his eyebrows jump up upon seeing the baby.

If the previous moments raced by like rockets, these next few drag on like molasses.

You reach over to grasp Din’s hand. He intertwines his fingers with yours, grip tight and grounding.

The priest crouches down and picks up the note.

He reads it, then glances around. He does not see you two, eyes passing right over the truck.

He tucks the note back into the carrycot and grasps the handles.

He stands and brings it - brings Grogu - into the building with him.

And just like that, just as suddenly as he was brought into your world, Grogu has left it. You look over at Din and see tear tracks running down his cheeks, eyes still staring at the orphanage doors.

You reach up to wipe his tears away. He looks down at you and brings your hand, the one holding his, up to his heart. 

You smile at him as best you can through your sadness.

“Not gone,” you tell him. “Merely marching far away.”

-

Lubbock, Texas shrinks in the rear view mirror, getting smaller and smaller until you can’t see it anymore, no matter how hard you try.

The truck is quiet. No music, no conversation, just the hum of the engine and your and Din’s combined breathing.

You drive until it gets dark. You stop in a small town in New Mexico, just outside a national park, and as you’re driving down the main street, Din clears his throat.

“You wanna stop for dinner?”

It’s the first thing either of you have said since leaving Lubbock. Deep down, you know Grogu is where he’s meant to be, that keeping him any longer would have been selfish. You just got so attached to this idea of the three of you as one. 

Dinner’s the furthest thing from your mind, in all honesty.

“I dunno. There might be a good Mexican place around here.”

Din nods. “Yeah. That would be good.”

Together you watch the buildings as they pass by, and before long you spot a small restaurant advertising homemade fajitas, tacos, and an assortment of other things that would have made your stomach grumble on any other day.

Din pulls the truck into the parking lot. You unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to open your door, but you feel Din’s hand on your shoulder, urging you to look over at him. You twist your body to do so, and are met with the kind brown eyes you’ve grown so attached to over the past few days.

His hand moves up to cup your cheek, fingers cool against your soft skin. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but he hesitates, and instead leans forward to kiss you on the lips.

Surprised, but not unhappy, you return the kiss, your hand haltingly rising to brush against his chin and the stubble you feel there. It’s tender and unexpected in the yellowish light of the parking lot, the moon just visible over the mountains in the distance. Din pulls away.

“I miss him too,  _ cyar’ika _ . I don’t - I’m glad to have you here with me.”

You nod in agreement. While sending Grogu away was difficult, more so than you anticipated, you truly don’t know how you’ll be able to handle leaving Din. It feels like your time together has just begun, like the two of you are meant for more than this. You could spend a lifetime sitting in the passenger seat of his truck and it wouldn’t be long enough.

You trace your fingers down the underside of his chin to his neck. “I don’t wanna be anywhere else,” you admit, because it’s true.

Inside the restaurant there are a few occupied tables, but it isn’t too crowded. There’s a mural on one wall of an old west, Mexican scene, and overhead plays a quiet mariachi recording. 

You’re seated in a booth in a dark corner of the main room, away from the conversations of the other patrons. The light above you buzzes slightly, and the table itself is sticky with years of past hands and spilt drinks and cleaners. On the wall is a framed newspaper clipping from the day the restaurant opened.

Din orders a beer and you opt for a Coke when the waitress asks what you’d like to drink. A quick glance at the menu tells you you’ll want the chicken enchiladas.

He’s still looking at the menu, flipping through the plastic-lined pages, when you speak, because the question is one you feel the two of you can no longer avoid.

“What are we doing here, Din?”

He glances up at you over the top of the menu. 

“Having dinner.”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” 

Din sighs, flipping to a certain page and then back again before he closes the menu.

“You want my honest answer?” he asks, reaching into his shirt pocket for a cigarette and his lighter. You don’t respond, because he should know that you do. “I don’t know. I don’t have anywhere to be. This is my life,  _ cyar’ika _ , traveling from place to place like this. When the next job comes along, I go do it. That’s all I know.”

“That’s only half of it, Din.” You steel yourself for your next words, because you have to convince yourself that not knowing is worse than anything he could say.

“What about me? I need to know how long you plan to keep this,” you gesture between him and you, as if to indicate the intangibility of your relationship, “going. If it’s tomorrow morning, okay. If it’s next Thursday, fine. But you have to tell me how long you plan on k-” your voice breaks, and you cough to cover it up, “keeping me around.”

Din’s eyebrows furrow, a frown curling his lips down around the cigarette perched between his lips. He moves his hand up to grasp the cig between his thumb and forefinger, smoke obscuring his face when he rests his hand on the table.

“I don’t plan on anything. You can stay with me as long as you like. As long as this life suits you.”

You laugh under your breath, because that’s a dangerous thought to be coming out of his mouth. “That’s the problem. It suits me just fine. Too fine, in fact, and you don’t need some girl weighing you down.”

He shakes his head and is about to reply when the waitress returns with your drinks. She sets them in front of you and then takes your orders, hastily scribbling them down on her notepad.

Din takes a sip of his beer and you watch the way his lips wrap around the opening of the bottle, the way his throat moves as he swallows the dark liquid. You clench your jaw. It’s like he’s doing it on purpose. He puts the bottle back down and clears his throat.

“You’re not weighing me down,  _ cyar’ika _ . And you’re not ‘some girl’. Not anymore.”

His words are too sweet, too good. You look over at the other patrons you can just barely see across the restaurant, trying to figure this out. Din’s treating it like it’s simple, but it’s not. It can’t be. Accepting the idea that Din wants you around just as much as you want to  _ be _ around is not something that comes naturally to you.

“So you’re telling me you’d be okay with lugging me around indefinitely? To your… jobs, whatever they are? I can’t… I can’t believe that, Din.”

He leans back in the booth, taking another drag as he continues to look at you with a raised brow. The man is so goddamned hard to read, it’s like his face is a mask, especially in situations like this. Is he regretting his choice? Is he upset with you? Your mind whirls with the possibilities, but you try not to let it show, try to channel whatever it is that gives him such a good poker face.

“Whether or not you believe it doesn’t make it any less true,” he says. “I’ll always be okay with having you around. If I’m ever not, I’ll tell you. Believe it or don’t.”

You purse your lips and glance up, catching his gaze with your own. His dark brown eyes are even darker in the dim lighting, and he would look almost scary if it weren’t for the fact that you know better. Your mind goes back to the lake - it’s hard to believe that was only earlier today. He looked so happy to be with you there, so vibrant and carefree as he spent that time with you and Grogu.

Could you have more days like that? So many you couldn’t count them all, so many that they become your new normal?

It’s too good to be true. But maybe you can revel in it for as long as it lasts.

The food arrives, steaming and aromatic, before you can say anything else. You dig in and it’s the best damn enchilada you’ve had in your life.

-

Tonight it’s the second floor of a Motel 6. You shower first thing to get the last of any lake water off your skin and out of your hair, because you can still smell it on yourself.

You leave the door open a few inches. An invitation, should Din choose to accept it. 

When you’re in the middle of lathering up your legs, your hair just rinsed of conditioner, you hear the telltale squeak of the bathroom door’s hinges. Then a pause, as if Din’s wondering whether it means what he thought it meant.

“I’m gonna need some help getting my back,” you say, listening for movement. “And maybe some other spots.”

The sound of a belt buckle being undone echoes through the small room, followed closely by the click of the door closing. You smile despite your racing heart. Clothes rustle and drop to the floor until you know only a thin curtain separates the two of you.

“Are you sure,  _ cyar’ika _ ?” His voice is low, rough, and it sends shivers down your spine. 

You chuckle. “I was sure the moment I got in your truck, Din.”

And then his hand’s curling around the edge of the curtain, pulling it back to reveal your bare form to him. His eyes widen and he’s frozen in place, staring.

You flick some water at his face, snapping him out of it. “You’ll have plenty of time to look, handsome. Not  _ get in here _ .”

It’s like a switch is flipped in his brain - one minute he’s short-circuiting, the next he’s stepped into the shower basin with you and his hands are  _ everywhere _ . The warm water wets his hair and drips down onto you as he grasps at your hips, your waist, your tits. His rough hands feel absolutely divine against your sensitive nipples, so much so that you let out a high-pitched whine at the feeling. Din’s breathing gets heavier at the sound of it, his lips pressing a smile into your neck.

“Been thinking of these tits since you put on that fuckin’ bikini, sweetheart. Couldn’t think of nothin’ else.”

You grin, wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing your naked body against his. Now that there’s finally nothing separating the two of you, feeling his warm, slick skin against your own is like a drug. The way his hands trail down to grab at your ass gives you a high that rivals anything you could get from a dealer.

Din noses at your neck and then up to your jaw before planting a searing kiss on your lips. It’s different from the others you’ve shared - where those were all soft, almost chaste, this is so much  _ more _ . His tongue presses against your teeth, which you gladly part, and then you’re tasting tobacco and beer and mint in a combination that should repulse you but only makes you want more. 

You moan at the feeling, at the headiness of it all. It’s like this is what the past few days has been leading up to - your promises of more and his dark looks, all culminating in the hot rhythm of the water and his lips.

As you lose yourself in the feeling of his tongue in your mouth, Din’s hands flex and squeeze on your ass, drawing your crotch closer to his own. You let out a gasp when you feel his length brush against your mound. Din groans at the feeling, and you know you’ll have a matching set of bruises on your butt tomorrow.

An idea enters your mind at the thought of Din’s cock. You lean back and look down and of  _ course _ it’s big. You look back up to see him watching you, waiting to see your reaction. Needless to say, you’re soaking wet, and not just because of the shower.

“I wanna - let me -” Words are difficult, so instead of getting hung up on them you shimmy out of his grip and lower yourself onto your knees. Above you, Din sucks in a breath, his hands tentatively grasping your wet hair.

“You don’t have to -  _ oh _ .”

You cut him off by grasping his thick member in your hand - dear  _ lord _ , you can barely wrap your fingers all the way around it - and licking a broad stripe across the tip. Din moans, tossing his head back, vulnerable and open for you and your mouth.

Now on a mission to drive every rational thought from his mind, you lick him again, this time dipping down to press your tongue against his balls and drawing it up the length of him. One of his hands grabs at your hair, cradling your skull but not forcing your movements, the other outstretched and bracing himself against the shower wall.

You lap at him a few more times, alternating between the head of his cock and the length of it, before you press your lips against the slit. Teasing, your hand slowly jerks him while your lips part to allow him in. Your other hand fondles his balls, pressing and squeezing and memorizing the weight of them in your grip.

Slowly, slowly, you press your mouth forward until Din’s cock is firmly in your mouth, until you can’t take him any further. It feels right, being on your knees for him like this. Like you shouldn’t have waited - like you should’ve done this that first night in the bed of his truck.

You bob your head, imagining what it would be like to do this in every hotel or motel you stay in, like a checklist of every city and state where you’ve fucked.

Din groans, a deep sound that seems to come from his chest. “ _ Fuck _ , sweetheart,” he breathes. “I knew your mouth’d feel good, but god _ damn _ .”

You moan in reply, letting the vibration of it run up his shaft, keeping your pace as you suck him off. It’s then that he grips your hair and pulls your mouth away.

“Keep that up and I’m not gonna last long,  _ cyar’ika _ .” He guides you up to stand again, then crowds you up against the shower wall. When your back hits it you reach your hands up, threading your fingers through his hair. 

Din presses another kiss to your lips and then pulls away. He reaches for the soap, which reminds you that oh, yeah, you’d actually been doing something when Din walked in.

He lathers his hands in the plain, ivory soap. “Turn around,” he says, and you gladly comply, pressing your hands against the shower wall and angling your hips  _ just so _ . 

Behind you, Din hums at the sight of you. You can feel his gaze on your ass, eyes searching for a glimpse of your pussy lips below. You wiggle your hips just a bit, just enough to tease.

“See something you like?”

Din chuckles, running his hands up your sides and over your back, simultaneously cleaning and admiring you. He massages the soap into your skin, stepping forward so that his hard cock rests between your asscheeks. The implication of it, of your position, only makes you want more.

Once he’s done, Din grips your hips and subtly thrusts his own forward. You look back at him and then down, watching as his length slides against you, mimicking the way you want to feel him inside you.

As if Din can read your thoughts, he turns you around and maneuvers you so that you’re standing under the flow of the water again, rinsing off.

The moment of peace settles your mind enough to where you can manage at least half a coherent thought. As Din presses kisses into your shoulders and neck, your hands grounded on his biceps, you let your dirty, raunchy thoughts and fantasies spill out of your mouth.

“I wanna blow you in the truck,” you murmur, picturing it in your mind’s eye. “Go down on you while you’re driving, thank you for keeping me so safe.”

Din hums against your skin, urging you to go on. You smile into the steam that surrounds you.

“ _ Been _ wanting to, in fact. Woulda done it that first night if you’d been so inclined. You had me so turned on, Din, just from looking at you.”

Din moves his lips up to ghost against your ear. “I wanted to fuck you up against that streetlight, kid. Let anyone see us as they drove by, let all the guys watching wish they were me.”

You moan, legs beginning to shake with the effort of standing. Din notices, reaches around to turn the water off, and then has you hop up with his hands beneath your thighs. 

He carries you out of the shower, out of the bathroom, and deposits you on clean sheets, both of you still naked and dripping wet. You scoot back until your head hits the pillow, legs slowly spreading for him. 

Din’s eyes zero in on your pussy. You see his cock twitch, and the sight of it makes you wetter; a needy, insistent sensation builds between your legs. Din blinks and glances around the room, looking for something. He spots your bag and walks over to unzip it and pull out your camera.

Your cunt throbs at the idea. Smirking at him, you shimmy down the bed, hands and arms stretched above you and legs spread invitingly. 

Din watches you position yourself as he winds the camera. He stands between your legs, steps back, and puts the viewfinder up to his eye. You smile softly at him.

He presses the button. Light flashes and the photo begins to slide out, but Din’s on you in a second, the camera abandoned on the side table.

“You look so fucking gorgeous,  _ cyar’ika _ .” His right arm rests on the bed next to you while his left hand arranges your legs around his waist, your ankles hooking together and drawing him closer.

“ _ Please _ , Din,” you whine, “please, I want you so bad. I need you.”

Din hums, letting his dick brush forward against your folds. “What do you need, huh? Tell me.”

You whine in frustration. “I need you - your cock. Inside me.”

“Yeah? Don’t need my fingers in your pussy first?”

It’s actually nice of him to ask, even if it is dirty talk - normally, you would. But now, with how you feel, how you’ve  _ felt _ , how wet and aching you are for him, you know you don’t need that. Even if the stretch is too much, the hurt will feel so good. You know it.

You shake your head. “Just fuck me, Din. I’ll take it.”

That’s all the encouragement he needed to press forward, angling his hips so the head of his cock notches against your opening. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, fingers and nails holding onto his warm, wet muscles, slipping over the space where you know the dark ink of his tattoo decorates his skin.

And then he pushes forward, and you think you’ve finally reached nirvana. Din thrusts forward slowly until he can’t any longer and the fullness inside you is perfect. You feel complete.

You feel like it was meant to be. Like this is your new year zero - everything before led up to this and everything after will be compared to it. It’s like he was made to be inside you, like you were made to fit him.

Din pulls back and thrusts forward, punching a loud moan out of your throat. He reaches up to brace his left hand against the headboard as he sets a deep, rhythmic pace. You feel yourself open up for him deep within yourself, deeper than anyone’s ever gone before.

Each thrust draws a moan out of your mouth. Din groans right along with you, whispering filthy things into your ear when he gets the chance. 

“Wanted to fuck you right there in that diner, show those assholes who fuckin’  _ owns _ this cunt.”

You cry out, spreading your legs even further, your orgasm building at the thought of being his.

“Gonna take a million pictures of you, sweetheart - string ‘em all up in the truck so I never forget how pretty your tits are.”

You whine even louder, and distantly you hear a pounding that isn’t in time with the cock in your pussy. Later you’ll realize that it was someone in the room next to yours, banging on the wall to get you two to quiet down.

You don’t.

In fact, if anything it makes Din fuck you harder. Your moans increase, and before you know it you’re coming, falling over the crest that’s been building within you. Din groans at the feeling of you tightening around him.

“Fuckin’ came on my cock…” he mutters, thrusts getting sloppy and uneven. “Didn’t even hardly touch you…”

There’s one, two, three more pumps of his cock inside you before he’s pulling out and coming all over your stomach and tits. His spend coats your skin, and you run your fingers through it, unashamed of your curiosity. Din reaches over for the camera and snaps a photo right as you put your fingers in your mouth, tasting him.

You take the camera from him once your fingers are clean and use your final picture to capture Din’s lazy, content smile as he lays on his back next to you.

-

The next morning, when you stop for gas and breakfast, you pick up another pack of blank Kodak photos. The guy at the cash register had complimented you on your shirt, which gave you a fuzzy feeling inside - it’s Din’s old band tee. You walk out of the gas station with your purchase and a smile on your face. Din’s in the truck, waiting, smoking a cigarette. 

“Got another job,” he tells you. “This one’s up in Idaho with my buddy Boba.”

You nod and reach out, taking the cigarette from him. You take a drag, the smoke filling your lungs and comforting you in the way only things that remind you of Din can.

Last night, he’d told you what exactly it is he does for a living, expecting you to freak. You hadn’t, of course. You responded by telling him about how you found the rifle that first night, how you’d realized it was for more than just hunting. Well, animal hunting, that is.

“Let’s go get him, cowboy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes on historical things, because I'm a nerd:
> 
> Revco was a CVS-esque drugstore that was based in the mid-Atlantic and southeast US. It was acquired by CVS in the '90s.
> 
> I based my version of the frog toy off the Frog and Toad children's book series, published between 1970 and 1979.
> 
> Carter's speech gives us an exact date that our story takes place: July 15, 1979. He delivered that speech in the midst of the energy crisis, rising unemployment, and inflation, with his goal being to unite the country and overcome this "crisis of confidence" in not only America as a country but also America as an idea. Unfortunately, it had pretty much the opposite effect - many since have criticized Carter for trying to blame the energy crisis on Americans and their moral failings rather than the actions of his administration. He made some good points, in my opinion, but criticizing American consumerism right at the outset of the '80s was not popular - it's interesting to consider it in the context of Reagan's incredibly pro-Capitalism administration that followed.
> 
> Regarding Vietnam: Din would have been part of the 7th Marine Regiment, which were the first Marines on Vietnamese soil in 1965. I've aged Din down slightly to make this work: if he was drafted at 21, he'd be 35 in this story. The NYT article that reader mentions was real - "Lessons of a Bad War" by Mark Pinsky (published on July 11, 1979). It's pretty brutal, but it also addresses the complexities of the situation and the difference between revisionism and sympathy. I disagree with Pinsky on several points but I encourage you to check it out if you're interested. The average age of draftees in Vietnam was 19.
> 
> I made Din a former gunnery sergeant because... well, because weapons.
> 
> The Wheel of Fortune episode that reader and Din watch aired on March 27, 1979 and you can find it on youtube - "Woolery Wheel (March 27, 1979): Gwen/Bryan/Anita".
> 
> The bikini I chose for reader actually came from the Sears 1979 summer catalogue, page 56. 
> 
> In my mind the Mandalorians here are a sort of commune, out in the wilderness somewhere. I left it purposefully vague because it's a fictional group, obviously, so however you want to imagine it is fine with me! 
> 
> Orphanages were falling out of style by this time, but homes for children did exist. I don't picture this one as the stereotypical cold, depressing space, because it's my story and I say Grogu has a happy childhood free from trauma.
> 
> That's about it! I hope you enjoyed this story. Feel free to leave comments or kudos. You can find me on tumblr at the same username (kingofkingdom). Have a great week and stay safe out there!!


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